


Good Influence

by coreopsis



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996), RPF - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, FPF/RPF, M/M, RPS - Freeform, Rare Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coreopsis/pseuds/coreopsis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy goes to AA even when he's drinking.  Marshall goes too.  Joe's dead but still adding his two cents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Influence

Billy Tallent was still a little drunk when he went to AA, but so what? He'd been that way most of the last couple weeks. He wasn't even sure why he bothered going but he'd gotten as much into the habit of the meetings as he had drinking in the first place.

*Why fall off the fucking wagon when you can fucking jump, right, William? You weak bitch.*

"Fuck off, Joe," Billy muttered. The ghost in his head never slept, and never, ever took a night off.

*Don't know why you fucking bother with all this bullshit. You're a drunk and you'll stay one.*

Oh yeah, now he remembered. He came because this was the sort of thing that had Joe spinning in his gr-- well, wherever he was now. In his more bitter moments, Billy hoped that whoever had stolen his bones had them sitting in a rocking chair dressed up like Norman Bates's mother. The bitter moments were actually the best ones. It was the rest that kicked his ass.

He lowered himself gingerly onto a folding chair, and reached into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth and a woman in the row in front of him gave him a dirty look and said, "You are *not* going to light that in here."

"Wasn't planning on it." Billy smiled coldly and moved the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. They could ask him to give up alcohol and drugs, but taking away his nicotine was the cruelest blow of all. "But I could make an exception for you."

The woman huffed and moved to a seat on the other side of the room.

"Way to get some space," a voice intruded, as Billy dug around in his pockets looking for the small bottle of Tylenol he habitually kept there. He glanced up to see a cup of coffee being shoved toward him. He blinked at it and then looked up at the vaguely familiar man wearing a baseball cap under the hood of his grey sweatshirt, who said "Take it or I'll drop it. I don't give a shit which."

Billy took the cup and set it down on the floor between his feet. While he resumed his search for pain killers, the young man sat down next to him. Billy ignored him as he found the bottle and struggled to get the child-proof cap open. Finally spilling a few pills into his hand, he took his cigarette out of his mouth and tossed them back without counting and ignored the way his head swam as he bent over to pick up his coffee. He took a gulp to wash down the pills and then replaced the cigarette between his lips.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably less than a minute, Billy glanced at the man next to him and said, "Thanks..."

"Marshall," the man offered, his eyes glinting with amusement behind his glasses. "We met at the Grammys."

"Yeah, I remember now." Billy nodded. He hadn't really forgotten, had he? "You won a lot that night."

"Your band didn't." Marshall's bluntness was not unkind. It was just the truth.

Instead of taking offense at the reminder, Billy snorted. "Just my fucking luck that U2 released an album the same time we did."

Marshall shrugged but didn't say anything else. He just sat there sipping his own coffee with his free hand tucked inside the front pocket of his sweatshirt, watchful yet oddly at ease. With his face relaxed and not creased into the defensively pissed-off look he usually wore, he looked much younger than Billy knew he had to be.

"I've never seen you here before."

"I don't spend that much time in L.A. if I can help it." Marshall tipped his head to indicate the rest of the room. "You mean *here*? I'm not an alcoholic. I just like the 'anonymous' part."

The ache in Billy's head was fading and Joe was uncharacteristically silent. He took the unlit cigarette from the corner of his mouth and pointed it at Marshall. "Anonymity is not so hard to find when you don't want it. It comes and goes."

"I remember. But it seems impossible sometimes." Marshall frowned into his cup. He glanced back up at Billy who was rolling his cigarette between his fingers, just dying to light the damned thing. "You know those things'll kill you."

"Slap an asterisk on my forehead, Mister Truth. I've been informed, so now you can fuck off."

"Fuck you too." Marshall laughed and finished off his coffee. He looked like he was going to say something else, but the first speaker got up and started talking.

Billy settled back to listen to the meeting and wonder why the man beside him was even talking to him in the first place, much less brought him coffee. He'd have thought the most famous rapper in the world would have better things to do with his time than hang out with old drunk rockers like him.

*Nice going, Bill. Now you've got fuckin' psycho rappers feeling sorry for your pathetic ass. You should've picked up my gun and used it too. We could've been together.*

Shut up, Joe. But this time Billy didn't say it out loud.

 

***

Marshall had already known who Billy Tallent was before meeting him at the Grammys, but not because he was a fan of Jenifur, the band in which Billy played guitar. Not long before his uncle Ronnie had introduced him to rap and hip-hop, one of Debbie's boyfriends had made Marshall listen to his punk records and the first Hard Core Logo album had been one of them. The angry, irreverent lyrics and driving beat of the music had appealed to him even at that young age although he never quite connected with it like rap, probably because the boyfriend wasn't around long enough to give Marshall more than a second listen. But Marshall had remembered the name, remembered Billy's face on the album cover.

Billy had to be over forty by now, but damned if he didn't still look pretty good. A little skinnier than Marshall remembered from the Grammys and he smelled of whiskey now instead of designer aftershave. He probably wasn't the first guy to go to a meeting half-drunk. Marshall had been smoking weed all night before his first meeting, which he only went to because his lawyer told him it might help him stay out of trouble. He giggled his ass off through the whole damn thing. The whiny fuckers who'd got up to talk had been the funniest thing he'd ever seen, until he realized that he was just like them. They were him.

He spent the next six weeks trying to stay sober and clean just to see if he could. And when he did it, that's when he went back. But only to listen and only when he was in LA. Even though he never talked, he wouldn't go to a meeting in his hometown because he didn't trust people there to keep their mouths shut about him being there. Out here, though, everybody had secrets worth protecting. Image was everything, and nobody knew that better than him. The key was to find the right meetings--the ones the paparazzi didn't have staked out.

During a break between speakers, Marshall went and got more coffee, bringing Billy another cup without even asking if he wanted it. Billy took the cup and nodded his thanks. Marshall sat back and sipped at the not quite hot enough liquid and pretended he didn't notice Billy glancing at him out the corner of his eye.

A guy with more piercings than hair got up and started talking about how he'd used Jim Beam to kick heroin. He talked about choices made and how the bad ones seemed to outweigh the good ones most days, and Marshall found himself nodding in agreement. He was personally more interested in taking control so that, whether they were good or bad, the choices were made by him alone.

Not too long after that, the meeting was over. Marshall got up to leave, but impulse made him stand over Billy for a long silent moment while the other man just sat there staring into space. "You gonna be all right?"

"What?" Billy looked up and blinked as if just waking up. "Yeah, I'm...yeah."

"You're not gonna drive or do nothing else stupid, are you?" Billy didn't seem like the type, but Marshall asked just to be sure.

Billy shook his head and stood up. "My driver's waiting outside."

"Probably talking to all the other drivers and security guys out there. They probably have their own meetings."

Billy chuckled at that. "Yeah. Probably more interesting than this one."

"No shit." Marshall looked around at the rapidly emptying room. "I'm still not used to how self-absorbed everybody is."

"Yeah, and you'd have no experience with that," Billy snorted, and then looked at Marshall intently. "Why are you here? Don't you get enough therapy from making your records?"

"Why are you here?" Marshall snapped back. "It's obviously not helping your drunk ass any."

"Shut up, Joe," Billy muttered under his breath as he ducked his head, but Marshall had sharp ears.

Marshall hovered between confusion and outrage for a second before choosing confusion. "The fuck you talking about? My name's not Joe."

"No. Sorry. Reflex." Billy sighed and rubbed a hand over bloodshot blue eyes. "Never mind. I gotta get out of here." He started walking away, then stopped in the door and turned back. "Good to see you again." He nodded his head and then walked out of sight.

Marshall wondered why he even cared if Billy really had a driver waiting for him, but he did. He didn't want to turn on the news tonight and see a report of another rock star gone down in flames.

 

***

Billy slipped on his shades as he walked through the doors to the outside even though it was almost dark. Out the corner of his eye, he saw a smaller figure break away from what looked like an impromptu linebackers' convention and follow him at a discreet distance. Mike had learned early on not to try talking to Billy after a meeting.

"Hey, Billy," called a voice behind him just as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He stopped and turned to see Mike stepping in front of Marshall.

"Sorry, sir, you have to stay back." And even though Mike wasn't as big as the average bodyguard, he was still bigger than either Billy or Marshall and managed to imbue his polite words with just enough menace. The funny thing was that he wasn't actually supposed to be Billy's bodyguard, but he kept trying to do the job anyway.

"Fuck off. I just wanted to talk--" Marshall shifted his gaze from Mike to Billy "--to you. But, uh, never mind."

"It's okay." Billy nodded at Mike who stepped out of the way. He faked a smile at Marshall and asked, "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you...uh." Marshall actually looked embarrassed which made Billy smile for real.

"That I wasn't gonna drive? Why would I lie to you?"

"Don't you have to? I thought it was some kinda law out here." Marshall smirked back.

"No, it's just a guideline." Billy pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and tipped a fresh one out into his mouth. He held the pack out to Marshall who shook his head. Billy lit the cigarette with a shaky hand and squinted at Marshall through the smoke. Maybe the kid had the whole world fooled into thinking he was some kind of badass thug, but Billy had serious doubts. "You wanna go get a better cup of coffee?"

*Why beat around the bush, Bill? Why don't you just take him home and fuck him?*

Joe's intrusion was so loud in his head that Billy almost didn't hear Marshall's answer.

"Yeah, sure. I'm not expected back to the studio for a few hours anyway." Marshall tilted his head and looked at Billy closely. "When's the last time you ate anything?"

Billy blinked and shrugged, unable to remember but unwilling to say so. "I need some coffee. Are we going to get some or not?"

"You really need him?" Marshall hooked a thumb in Mike's direction.

"Only to keep from getting a DUI." Billy told Mike he was free to go home and then turned back to Marshall. "You think probation's a bitch? If I fuck up any more, I'll get deported. That green card was too hard to get in the first place. I'm not losing it."

"I hear ya." Marshall led Billy over to a Mercedes where he turned off the security system and unlocked the doors with a keychain remote. He slid into the driver's seat and waited for Billy to finish his smoke and get settled on the passenger side before he started the engine. "Where we going?"

"Roscoe's okay with you?"

"That place with the chicken and waffles? Yeah, that's good." He pulled out into the street and didn't say anything else.

"So...how long you been sober?"

"I told you I'm not--" Marshall flicked a glance at Billy. "A few months. How long you been drunk?"

That stung a little, but was only fair so Billy answered honestly. "The better part of two weeks. Ever since my daughter went back home. I had a good six months before that."

"You got a daughter too?" Marshall's voice suddenly came alive with a completely different level of interest than he'd previously shown. "What's her name? Where's she live?"

"Her name's Billie and she lives in Regina. That's in Canada, which is why I don't get to see her much. I tried once, but couldn't get custody." Billy swallowed down his bitterness for the millionth time. "Can't imagine why."

"That sucks, man. I know how I felt when I couldn't see Hailie. It nearly killed me." Marshall pulled into a parking space around the corner from the restaurant, and they both got out. As they walked, Billy stared down at the cracked sidewalk, waiting for Joe to pipe up, but he was curiously silent on the subject of Billie. Even imaginary ghosts have some limit, Billy guessed.

The old man at the door greeted Billy by name and nodded at Marshall. "Go right on in. Y'all got here right ahead of the evening rush."

Billy smiled at him and then again at the hostess who seated them at a small table in the corner. He stared down at the menu, at his hands on the table top, at Marshall, anything to avoid the mirrors on the walls. He didn't want to know how bad he looked, and there was always the faintest fear that he'd see Joe standing behind him. But would it be Joe all young and angry and full of fire as he had been back in the day or Joe with dead eyes devoid of hope and a bloody bullet hole in his temple? He wasn't sure which would be worse, and that scared him too.

***

"You're not like your--" Billy waved a hand vaguely. "Public persona. Or should I say the character you play in your raps."

Marshall shrugged and crammed a forkful of syrup drenched waffle in his mouth. The observation came out of the blue since just a minute ago they'd been talking about movies and whether Tom Hanks or Robin Williams was funnier. He took a sip of his soda before answering. "Some of it's real, but I can't be Slim twenty-four seven. It's exhausting. Besides, you don't really think Martin Sheen is the president, do you?"

Billy laughed a little and the lines around his eyes eased a bit. He'd taken off his sunglasses in the dimness of the restaurant, and Marshall was glad. He read people by what was in their eyes, especially when they weren't looking directly at him. They were more honest then. He couldn't help noticing that every time Billy smiled or laughed, he tipped his head down and either looked away or up through his lashes, which should have looked feminine but didn't really. Well, maybe just a little. Maybe that's why Marshall found it attractive.

Marshall squirmed in his seat at the realization that he was starting to look at Billy that way. It was something he tried to avoid now that he couldn't blame it on drugs or drinking any more. He didn't want to get comfortable with feeling that way. His view of himself couldn't handle the strain.

"Anger takes a lot out of a person." Billy took a sip of his coffee, and poked at the picked clean chicken bones on his plate. "Still, it's better than fear. At least anger gets you up in the morning."

"Yeah, but then what? It just gets you in trouble for the rest of the day."

"True." Billy shifted his shoulders and sat back in his chair. "What are you in town for?"

"Doing some recording with Dre. Checking out some new acts for my label." Marshall didn't want to talk about work, but it seemed inevitable when he hooked up with industry people.

"Recording's good. I miss being in the studio, the structure and discipline." Billy rubbed his thumb across the heavy silver ring on the forefinger of his right hand. "I've lost the taste for touring. Especially in winter. We're going out on the road in a couple weeks."

"How many dates?" Marshall asked reflexively, unable to take his eyes off the mesmerizing sight of Billy's hand on the tabletop, the long thin fingers curling in on themselves as his thumb continued to worry at the curves of the snake that formed the ring.

"Thirty. All across the Midwest, a few shows in the northeast and then a sweep through Canada." Billy's hand clenched tighter, turning his knuckles white, as he muttered, "It's gonna be so fucking cold."

"So you'll keep the heat cranked in the bus and wear your thermal underwear." Marshall tipped his cup back and got a mouthful of ice to crunch on. "Come on, don't be a pussy. You'll be all right. You believe in your music, don't you? You still love to play?"

Billy didn't even hesitate to answer that one. "Of course I do."

"Well, there you are." Marshall smiled encouragingly. "Focus on that and forget the other shit."

Billy watched him for a long silent moment. Marshall occupied himself with cleaning his plate and finishing off his soda. When the silence started to wear on his nerves, he looked up again, meeting Billy's direct gaze, and said, "What?"

"If I could focus on that and forget the rest, I wouldn't be in the shape I'm in."

"But you went to the meeting. Don't you get anything from the program?"

"I guess so. What do you get from it, Marshall?" Marshall realized that it was the first time Billy'd said his name, and it was unexpectedly...affecting.

Marshall leaned back in his chair and looked down at the table for a moment, hoping that the brief intense flare of interest, of nascent arousal, hadn't shown in his eyes. "The truth of the matter... The truth is...I go to the meetings to keep from drinking and doing drugs, right? Staying sober keeps me from doing other things that are...easier under the influence. Easier to do, easier to deal with, easier to forgive and forget. Things I don't necessarily want to do, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Oh." Billy seemed to absorb that for a moment and then he nodded. "Sounds familiar. I had this...friend. We could do all kinds of fucked up shit to each other, and as long as we could blame it on being loaded, it was...workable. And then one day, I woke up."

Marshall waited for Billy to explain or continue, but he just kept rubbing at the ring on his finger. He was about to change the subject, shift the conversation back onto less personal ground when Billy looked up at him very intently. "I woke up. And it was a relief and a disappointment at the same time. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I think I do. You had to start paying attention to what was going on and what you were doing. You had to make things happen instead of just reacting." Marshall wasn't sure where all this was coming from, but it made sense when he said it out loud. "Am I close?"

Billy's eyes had widened slightly and he nodded. "You're dead on."

"That's how you get to be nominated for Grammys instead of in a dead-end punk band hardly anyone's ever heard of."

 

***

Billy's stomach twisted and his hand clenched convulsively, awareness flooding through him like morning sunlight through suddenly opened curtains. He'd been sobering up for a while, but now he was waking up again right when he least expected it and he wasn't ready. Before he could slide into a full-blown panic attack, the waitress came by and laid the check on the table between them. Marshall reached for it, but Billy pushed his hand away, careful not to let his touch linger. "I invited you, so I'll get it."

*Check out mister generous rock star. You'll get in his pants yet, William.* It was all Billy could do not to visibly shudder at Joe's intrusion. The son of a bitch had lulled him into a false sense of security by being quiet for so long.

Marshall opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it again and shrugged.

"Are you done here?" Billy pulled out his wallet and counted out bills for the waitress and then for the check.

"Yeah." Marshall pushed back his chair and stood up. He nodded at Billy's hand which was already deep in his pocket. "You're just dying for a smoke, aren't you?"

Billy smiled sheepishly. He shouldn't have been surprised that Marshall had noticed his impending nicotine fit. Those sharp eyes of his seem to take in everything, dissect it, and file it away for later use. Reminded him of Joe, really, and that was very, very good and yet terribly bad.

*He wants you. He's got a little hero worship. You could twist that to your advantage. Fuck him, Billy. I dare you.*

Billy gritted his teeth until they were outside where he could light up. Then he silently puffed on his cigarette until Joe's taunting voice settled down a bit. He dropped the butt to the sidewalk and ground it under his heel and then looked up at Marshall who had the far away look of someone who was writing in his head.

"Guess it's time for you to be heading to the studio. Do you mind dropping me by my place?"

Marshall's eyes cleared slowly as he came back to the moment at hand. "Yeah, of course I'll take you home."

And so he did. The conversation in the car was filled with silences more comfortable than awkward, and Marshall gave Billy an amiable smile when he got out of the car. "Maybe I'll see you around before I go back to Detroit."

"Sure." Billy smiled back and shrugged. Then he waved as he turned to walk up to his door. Billy couldn't help but notice that Marshall didn't drive away until he was safely inside.

 

***

Even if he couldn't think of any offhand, Marshall was sure he had plenty of very good reasons to be driving through Los Feliz at eleven o'clock in the morning, even though he'd been in the studio until five and he hadn't planned to go to a meeting that day anyway. It was purely coincidence that Billy lived in the neighborhood and had pointed out the tea and coffee place on Hillhurst where he often got breakfast as they had driven by the night before.

He assured himself that he was not a stalker even as he slowed down and pulled into the parking lot as soon as he spotted Billy at an outdoor table. He hopped out of his car and went inside for a cup of coffee, almost running into Zack de la Rocha in the doorway.

When Marshall came outside and saw Billy talking to Zack, grinning up at him like they were best pals, he couldn't believe how jealous he felt. That was really fucking stupid. He shook his head and wandered over as if seeing Billy was a total coincidence.

Billy nodded at something that Zack was telling him then turned slightly and threw up a hand in greeting. "Marshall. I wouldn't have expected to see you out and about this early. Didn't you go to the studio last night?"

Marshall nodded at Zack and shrugged at Billy. "Yeah, but I had stuff to do."

"So do I, so I better get moving. Billy, it was good to see you." Zack shook Billy's hand and nodded at Marshall. As he turned to leave, he smiled at Billy. "Think about it and if you're interested, give me a call."

Marshall eyed Zack's departing back with an intense desire to bust out Slim Shady and do something that'd get him in more trouble than all his previous encounters with the law combined. He shook his head and sat down at Billy's table. "What was that about?"

Billy raised an eyebrow and took a sip from his paper cup. "Potential collaboration." He paused for a couple of beats and then added, "But it'll have to wait until I get back from the road."

Marshall took a drink of his coffee and looked at Billy closely. His eyes were clear and he looked well-rested. His hand was steady as he rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. "You look g-- better."

"I feel better. I cleaned all the booze out of my house last night." Billy shrugged and tapped the cigarette on the table top. "One day at a time."

"Fake it 'til you make it." Marshall smiled when Billy laughed low and stuck the cigarette back in his pocket.

"Yeah. I'm good at that." Billy looked away. "I've had a lot of practice."

"I've listened to your records," said Marshall abruptly, just to change the subject.

"You and twenty million other people. But I wouldn't think Jenifur would be to your taste."

"No, I mean the *other* records. Hard Core Logo."

"Ah." Billy nodded and said nothing else, and Marshall wondered if this subject wasn't somehow more volatile than the other.

"I have a couple of the reissues on CD, but I heard them on vinyl when I was a kid." Marshall ignored Billy's amused snort. "I liked it. That shit was tight, man. A lot different from what you do now."

"Yeah, well. Times change. People change." Billy muttered bitterly, "Selfish bastards blow their brains out."

As if he'd just been drenched in ice water, Marshall sucked in a sharp breath and narrowed his eyes. The words flew out of his mouth in a staccato burst. "Fuck. You."

Billy looked up, mouth falling open in surprise, as Marshall jumped to his feet, but Marshall was in no mood to explain. He shouldn't have to.

"What the fuck?" Billy got to his feet more slowly, keeping the table between him and Marshall.

But Marshall wasn't having it. He walked stiffly to his car and drove away. He was through with fucking Billy Tallent. That son of a bitch could drink himself into a coma for all Marshall cared.

***

Billy replayed the conversation in his head on the walk back to his house. It was obvious his offhand reference to Joe's suicide had pissed Marshall off, but Billy realized he really didn't know enough about Marshall to figure out why.

Once he was back home, he sat down at his kitchen table and fired up the laptop computer his drummer had bought him for Christmas a few years ago with the vow of dragging Billy into the twenty-first century whether he wanted to go or not. Billy had surprised them both by taking to it with little resistance. Maybe he'd been ready for a new century.

A quick Google search turned up about a million sites devoted to Marshall--well, to Eminem and his music. It was short work to find one with a biography that explained about Marshall's uncle Ronnie who had committed suicide at the age of nineteen.

"Damn. Even Joe lived long enough to really fuck up his *and* my life."

*I heard that, you fucker.*

"I meant for you to. Why don't you piss off and leave me alone? What the fuck's the point of dying if you're just gonna hang around trying to make my life miserable?"

Joe's ghost--or the section of Billy's subconscious that acted as Joe's voice--had nothing to say to that. Some days Billy didn't question it because he figured he deserved it, but not today. Today he was sober and not sunk into a deep pit of self-loathing and self-pity--well, maybe a shallow puddle, but that was pretty much his baseline anyway.

Billy shook his head and reached for the phone and a pad of paper. First he called a friend at his record company who knew just about everyone in town and a lot of industry people in other cities too. He couldn't get Marshall's personal number but he got his manager Paul Rosenberg's and also Dr. Dre's for good measure.

Rosenberg refused to give Billy the number to Marshall's cell, but he did take Billy's number and promise to give it to Marshall the next time he talked to him. Billy hung up the phone with very little hope that Rosenberg would actually do it, so he tried Dre next.

After Dre finally answered, Billy explained who he was and what he wanted. Just in case it might help, he threw in the fact that he had met both Marshall and Dre at the Grammys.

"So? I meet a lot of people at awards shows." Dre's voice was matter-of-fact on the point. "Don't mean we're friends or something."

"Yeah, I know that." Billy rubbed at his temple where a headache was building. "Look, I only want to talk to Marshall anyway, so could you please give me his number or give him mine?"

"Why should I?"

"I don't know, for the entertainment value?" Billy sighed and swallowed his pride enough to admit, "I need to apologize to him, okay? How often does that happen?"

Dre chuckled. "Yeah, all right. I'll give him your number."

"You know, Paul Rosenberg told me the same thing, but I didn't quite believe him."

"You can believe me. Em is sitting across the room from me right now."

"Well, why didn't you say so? Let me talk to him right now."

"Nah. It's gotta be his decision." Dre paused and Billy could hear papers rustling near the phone. "Give me your number and I'll give it to Em the minute I hang up. After that it's up to him."

Billy rattled off his cell number and then made Dre read it back to make sure it was right. He clicked off the phone and sat there, not really waiting for it to ring. When it remained silent for a few minutes, he pulled up another webpage and went back to reading about Marshall's past, which was turning out to be a fascinating story if somewhat contradictory in places. After reading a dozen articles, it seemed like everyone who had even passed Marshall in the street once had been interviewed about what his childhood had *really* been like. Billy couldn't begin to guess which bits were true, and couldn't be bothered to work too hard at doing so. He didn't give a shit about his own crappy childhood so why on earth should he care about someone else's? Upon making that realization, Billy turned off the computer.

Billy felt a flare of excitement when his doorbell rang, thinking maybe Marshall had decided to forego the phone and just come over. He opened the door to find Mike standing there holding a couple of cups from Starbucks.

Mike handed Billy one of the cups and said, "You ready to go to rehearsal?"

"Yeah, just let me get my stuff." Billy took a sip of what turned out to be tea, and never thought for a minute of actually admitting that he'd completely forgotten about the tour rehearsal this afternoon. Not that it made any difference, since he could wait for Marshall not to call him at the rehearsal hall as well as at home.

***

"What? You keep looking at me like I sprouted another head. Get the fuck over yourself." Marshall scowled at Dre who just smirked back.

"Are you gonna call this guy and see what he wants or you just gonna keep mangling pens?"

Marshall looked down at the broken pen in his hand--the third one today--and sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I didn't ask you to--not with me anyway. You're acting really weird, Em. No lie."

"All right, all right. Quit bitching at me and I'll call the fucker." Marshall threw the pen in a trashcan and dug another one out of his bag. He flipped his notebook to a clean page. "Just not right now."

"Whatever, man." Dre went back to whatever he'd been doing before he decided to stare at Marshall like a circus freak, and Marshall stared at the blank paper and willed the words to come this time.

After a frustrated half hour, he ripped out the half-full sheet of paper and tore it into little pieces which he then wadded up and dumped in the trash.

Dre watched it all with an amused expression.

"Not a fucking word," Marshall snarled, grabbing the note with Billy's number and walking out of the studio. He walked down the hallway until he found an empty room. He went inside and locked the door behind him.

Punching in the number, Marshall paced while he waited for Billy to answer. He made two complete trips from one end of the room to the other before Billy picked up.

"What do you want?" asked Marshall. He could hear snatches of music and voices in the background but refused to ask where Billy was or if he'd interrupted something.

"What? Wait, hold on a second..." Marshall heard a thunk and then nothing but silence until Billy spoke again. "Sorry, couldn't hear. Rehearsals. I'm outside now."

"I asked what you want. Why you're calling everybody I know trying to get my number."

"I wanted to talk to you about earlier." Billy sighed and his voice sounded a little ragged around the edges. "Look, Marshall, I didn't know about your uncle. I was just talking about Joe. He's...my ghost...and I forget that everyone else's got 'em too."

Marshall didn't say anything. He had an entire raging tirade that he could unleash, but he was just too tired. He sat down on a chair by the window and looked out. Couldn't see anything but a parking lot, but it was better than the dark grey wallpaper.

"Marshall? You still there?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

While Marshall was deciding whether to accept the apology or tell Billy to fuck off, another thought occurred to him. "How'd you find out about Ronnie since this morning?"

"As one of my bandmates loves to remind me, it *is* the twenty-first century. I looked you up on the internet."

"You read some interviews and looked at some fanpages, so now you think you know me?" Marshall snorted, but he was oddly touched that Billy had bothered.

"No, not even close. But I have now seen a lot of pictures of you without a shirt on. And quite a few pictures of your bare ass. You're not shy at all are you?"

"Not about my ass. I keep hoping it'll actually blind somebody one day, but--"

"It's not that bad. It's a fine ass."

"Excuse me? Did you just... Did you just compliment my *ass*?" Marshall laughed, imagine how embarrassed Billy probably was to have made such a mistake. He was probably blushing and everything.

"Yes, I guess I did," replied Billy in a voice serious enough to instantly kill Marshall's amusement.

"You mean that wasn't a joke or something?" Marshall was surprised that the idea didn't upset him like he might have expected. Being high and desperate to get off was one thing, but he was stone cold sober now.

"No. There's nothing funny about your ass." Billy made a low sound that could have been a smothered curse and then said, "Hey Marshall, we're friends now, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. Why?"

"Just wondering if you were going to kick *my* ass. I wasn't really coming on to you or anything."

"I wouldn't kick your ass for that. It would be--" Marshall bit back the word "okay" and said "--kinda crazy, but nothing to get that mad about."

"Glad to hear it." And Billy did sound relieved. "I'm going to a meeting tonight, but you want to get together later for dinner? It's not a date," he added quickly. "I'd just like to make up for this morning."

"Great, first you're not coming on to me and now you're not asking me out. I'm starting to feel rejected." Marshall thought he should stop this teasing before Billy got the idea that he was flirting, but he was having fun and feeling more relaxed than he had all day.

"I'm just playing it safe. I'd rather not be graphically murdered on your next album."

"I save that for my so-called loved ones. I hardly know you, dog." Marshall snickered, but he was thinking that he really wouldn't mind too much if...no. He shouldn't even consider it. That kind of thing--he couldn't even properly name it--always fucked his head up.

Marshall heard someone call Billy's name, and then Billy said, "I gotta get back to work. You never answered my question. Do you want to get together or not?"

"Yeah, I'll be free. Which meeting you going to?"

Billy told him and then said, "I really gotta go now. You want me to call you when I'm done here?"

"No, I'll catch up with you later. Bye." Marshall clicked off the phone and sat there for a while before going back to the studio.

***

Billy folded up his phone and stuck it in his pocket, vividly aware that Marshall never did give him his number, except very obliquely as it showed up on the caller ID. That was probably significant, like maybe he shouldn't be talking about Marshall's ass anymore. He was pleasantly surprised at the way Marshall had flirted with him when the subject did come up.

Walking back into the rehearsal room, Billy put Marshall out of his mind completely. It was the only way he'd get through the rest of the day.

That evening, Billy walked into the meeting to see Marshall sitting in the back row smirking and pointing at the empty chair beside him.

Billy sat down and smiled. "You didn't tell me you were coming here."

"Yeah, well. I wasn't planning on hitting any more meetings this week, but..." Marshall shrugged. "Maybe you're a good influence or something."

That surprised a laugh out of Billy. "I can honestly say I've never been called that before."

"Awww, don't you wanna be a role model for America's youth?"

"I'm Canadian. I don't have any responsibility to America's youth. I'll leave that to you." Billy hummed a little bit of one Marshall's songs. "Don't you wanna grow up to be just like me?"

Marshall let out a low laugh that sounded too intimate for a public place. Billy felt a tremor of lust shake him to his core as he imagined Marshall laughing like that while crawling across the rumpled sheets of Billy's bed. He blinked slowly and crossed his legs.

"Where do you wanna go to eat?" Billy asked, desperate to get his mind back into safer territory. "I picked last time so you choose this time."

"Why don't we get Taco Bell drive-thru and eat it at my hotel room? That way you can smoke and neither one of us has to worry about fans bothering us."

Billy didn't have to think long to decide. "That's probably not a good idea."

"Why?" Marshall's eyes were narrowed and he seemed to have his inner bullshit detector set on maximum, so Billy didn't even try to lie.

"Because you said you don't want to...go where that might lead." Billy tilted his head and considered Marshall very carefully. "Honesty's the only way to go if we're going to be friends. And honestly..." Billy leaned over and held his hand up in front of Marshall's ear and whispered, "I want you. And it could be really, really good between us."

Then he sat back and casually continued, "But I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything."

Marshall stared straight ahead and didn't say anything. Just as he glanced at Billy and opened his mouth to finally speak, the meeting secretary got everyone's attention in order to start the meeting. Marshall shut his mouth and turned his attention to the woman speaking.

Billy wondered if he'd just ended any association with Marshall for good.

***

Marshall knew he hadn't shown Billy just how shook up he was by that not-entirely-surprising admission. He'd had plenty of practice keeping his outer calm while inside he was scared stupid. His mind was racing along at least half a dozen paths of thought at the same time

*I'm not a fag.*

*But I'm also not a virgin to...this kinda thing. Just never done it sober before.*

*This is not some nameless faceless nobody willing to blow me in a bathroom.*

*Did I mention I'm not a fag? 'cause I'm definitely NOT.*

*Billy fucking Tallent is turning me into a motherfucking fanboy.*

*No, no, no...well, maybe. No, it's stupid.*

*Why? Why not go for it?*

*Because...about a million reasons not to.*

And only one reason to do it, Marshall realized. He wanted to, and he seldom got to do just what he wanted to do anymore. Everything had to be cleared through his manager or his publicist or his lawyers--somebody always had something to say about every little thing. Having to share Hailie with Kim left him not a single thing in his life that he had complete control over...except for who he slept with.

So he could see where this thing with Billy went if he wanted to. He didn't have to fuck him if he didn't want to, but there was no reason to just stop hanging out with him because the possibility was there.

Marshall was jostled out of his thoughts by Billy raising his hand to speak. Marshall turned his head to look at Billy as he stood up and said, "My name's Billy and I'm an alcoholic. It's been twenty-seven hours since my last drink, but just as importantly it's been eight hours since I last heard the voice of my dead...everything. Joe was everything. He gave me my first drink and my last bloody fistfight and a bunch of scars in between. Ever since he committed suicide six years ago, I've heard his voice in my head just about all the time, except when my daughter's around. I don't know if I believe in ghosts. It's probably just my subconscious guilt and self-loathing manifesting itself in Joe's voice--hey, I read the books." Billy smiled and paused while a few people chuckled. Marshall just continued to stare up at him, soaking up his story.

"Joe could be a mean bitch sometimes. But I loved him more than anybody in this world and I listened to him, even when he was fucking up both our lives. But now, I don't think I have to. He's dead and he doesn't get a say-so in my life any more." Billy rubbed a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes for a moment. "And today...today I haven't even felt more than a passing urge to drink. I don't know what tomorrow will be like, but I made it through today."

Marshall ignored everyone else's reaction, the applause and the supportive words, because as Billy sat down he murmured, "You must be a good influence."

"I never been accused of that before," said Marshall with a quiet laugh.

With a slight shrug, Billy smiled and looked away.

Marshall sighed and tried to listen to the next person who got up to talk, but all he could think about was Billy and how fucked up he was. Even though they had some things in common, Marshall thought it might be their differences that would ultimately be the best thing between them. They were both fucked up but they could somehow still manage to each be a good influence on the other.

***

Billy tried to pay attention to what was going on around him, but he was absorbed by the silence in his head. Joe wasn't talking to him and his conscience wasn't screaming at him for anything. It was kind of refreshing.

And then there was Marshall, a good looking young man who seemed to have a good heart buried under all the anger and hype. Best of all, he'd actually heard of Hard Core Logo and still seemed to like Billy, at least a little. That was promising. If he'd learned anything in AA, it was that "one day at a time" was not just a little catchphrase. Sometimes it was all he had and it worked.

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to DaraQ for tons of LA info, some of which I used and some I'll save for another time. Thanks also to Embitca and Nicole for beta.


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